


Keening

by Victopteryx



Series: Roots [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Violence, What is Love (Baby Don’t Hurt Me)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25608691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victopteryx/pseuds/Victopteryx
Summary: Senju Hashirama thought Uchiha Madara didn’t love him. After all, that had been what Madara said.It turns out his definition of “love” just differed a little from Hashirama’s.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: Roots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817890
Comments: 6
Kudos: 134





	Keening

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as part of Roots, but it didn’t really fit with where I wanted the story to go. You don’t need to have read Roots in order to understand this, though!

“Hashirama, I don’t love you. I know what love is - I loved Izuna, Hashirama. I feel his absence like a missing limb. The people I love end up dead, so I try not to do it often. But this?” Madara traced a shaking finger along the edge of Hashirama’s face. “This... I don’t have a word for. It’s not love. I want to do terrible things to you, Hashirama. I want to carve you into my flesh and write your name on my bones. I want to pull your heart from your chest and eat it, so I could take your soul and have it inside me. I want to feel your chakra searing my skin - I want you to unmake me in every way, tear me down to my base components and erase me.” Madara’s eyes were red slivers in the dark room. Hashirama could feel his heartbeat pounding in his throat. They were so, so close.

“I am obsessed with you, Hashirama. There’s nothing left of me in here - you hollowed out the place where my heart should be and crawled inside. I think about you constantly. I think about what it would be like to make you come. I think about what it would be like to have you hurt me in a way that matters - I want you to break me into slivers and remake me from scratch. Do you get that?”

Hashirama didn’t move. He didn’t want to say anything, in case it broke the spell, in case it made Madara move away, close off again like he had before - but Madara continued talking. “That’s why I wanted you to kill me. It only seemed right that you get the honor. When Izuna was alive it seemed like it meant something - that if we kept fighting, eventually it would all reach a head, and someone, somewhere, would give. We might have had a happy ending, in some other life. But Izuna is dead and the only thing left in me is this.... need, burning in my gut, for you. Can you imagine the guilt I feel? Every time I imagine your hands on my skin it’s like I’m spitting in his grave.” Madara’s laugh came out broken. “I’m wretched. He begged me not to trust you, and yet here I am - fighting against my own clan on your behalf.” Scarlet eyes found his again. “But god, Hashirama,” Madara leaned even closer. “Even then, knowing how depraved it makes me - even as treacherous as it might be -"

Madara didn’t finish the sentence. There was a moment of stillness. The wind rustled the tree branches outside.

Then, finally, Madara pressed his lips to Hashirama’s. It was like a dam breaking. Hashirama’s hands tangled themselves in Madara’s hair - he wrenched him closer, ever closer, close enough that their chests touched as he tore into him. Madara’s leg swung over his and he was straddling him, hands ripping Hashirama’s haori off his shoulders. Madara bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood and Hashirama dug his nails deep into Madara’s scalp. They were pressed together so tightly they could barely move - Madara’s legs twined under his, Hashirama’s right hand tangled tightly in his hair, his left scraping across Madara’s shoulder blade.

 _God_ , he had wanted this.

Madara groaned as Hashirama’s mouth left his, moaned when Hashirama pressed a hot tongue to the pulse hammering in his neck. He had the wild urge to bite down - let him see blood, find these traces of himself that Madara had sworn beat in his veins - but just scraped his teeth over that pulse point as his hand skidded across Madara’s chest.

Hashirama was beginning to understand, now, what Madara had meant. Madara was burning over him, and Hashirama wanted to pull him down and cut him open, to find that heart beating under his scarred chest and take it for himself, to dig his fingertips into the muscle and meat.

“I love you,” Hashirama said. “But you should know that I also feel like this, too.”

“Do you think about me?” Madara said, hands wrapping around Hashirama’s throat. His lips were bruised and bloody, his hair in even more disarray than before - with his swirling scarlet eyes and his chakra boiling in the air around them, to Hashirama, he looked like a god, like a painting in a shrine made to appease some wrathful deity.

“Madara,” Hashirama said, feeling his throat work against the rough palms. “I can’t think about anything else.” He threw Madara to the side - Madara let out a sharp “Oof” as he hit the ground - and straddled him, reversing their positions. Hashirama found his hands and pinned them to the ground, his hair falling like a curtain around him. Madara’s kimono had fallen open and his chest heaved with every breath as he stared up at Hashirama with searing eyes.

“When you think about me, do I look like this?” Madara asked in a rough voice.

“Yes,” Hashirama breathed, and buried himself in Madara’s neck, dragging his lips across under his jaw, across his collarbone, and down. Madara writhed under him, struggling against where Hashirama pinned his hands to the ground, desperate noises forcing themselves from his throat. Hashirama wanted to see it all, he wanted to pull out every sound buried within Madara, every gasp, every moan. He wanted to witness them and categorize them, these noises no one else got to hear - these secrets Madara whispered that were for him alone.

Who was Uchiha Madara? Was he this desperate, greedy stranger, whose back was arching off Hashirama’s floor? Were these his hands, now free, that tangled in Hashirama’s long, silky hair, that curled around the back of his neck and pulled him down, down, and deeper - was this Uchiha Madara? Was this his oldest enemy, his dearest friend, who was canting his hips and moaning his name on ragged breath?

Hashirama moved, and Madara moved with him, mouth tearing into his, hands tensing and clawing on Hashirama’s back as Hashirama unmade him.  
He doesn’t think about love as he bites down hard on Madara’s shoulder. He doesn’t think about the future as he pulls on a fistful of Madara’s hair. The only thing on Hashirama’s mind as he brings a hand down between them, making Madara moan anew as he moves, a thin sheen of sweat beginning to gather in the hollows of his neck, on his brow, is Madara. Madara, Madara, _Madara_. He fills Hashirama’s vision - his scent fills his nose - Hashirama’s chakra is making the ground shake beneath them but under that, everywhere around him, oh, he can feel Madara there too -

Hashirama came with a breathless shiver, head spinning from the shock of it, as he drove down into Madara. Madara wasn’t far behind - his whole body tensed like a bowstring; every line pulled taut as he sank his teeth into a clenched fist.

Hashirama covered him like a shroud, bringing one hand up to caress his face. Madara, now slack, head lolling against the floor, pressed his lips again to Hashirama’s - this kiss was brief and chaste. Hashirama could taste the blood it left on his lips.

He would later discover that every piece of glass in the house had shattered, and that there were burn marks on the tatami mats from his room. But that was later. For now, Hashirama was curled over Madara, head nestled against the other’s neck, listening to the steady rasp of Madara’s breath.


End file.
